Blank Page

I must have been staring at this blank computer screen for at least an hour with nothing to show for it. People write about writer’s block, which in is an oxymoron since they’re writing about it, but never experienced it until now. Bored, frustrated, and feeling useless, I did what anyone would do in this situation—I took a nap.

Waking refreshed, but not inspired, I returned to my sleeping computer. When the computer screen sprang to life, I found this.

Why not write about me?

My first reaction was to laugh out loud, but then reality struck. I’m here by myself, on the top floor of a high-rise apartment building with the door locked. Stranger still, I have not connected this computer to the internet. Thinking it was probably some strange glitch, I wiped the screen clean and once again stared at a blank page. This time, instead of going to sleep, I went for a walk.

Wandering the neighborhood usually works for me. I get some exercise, speak to a neighbor or two, and breathe in some semi-fresh air; it is the city after all. When I returned to my apartment, I was feeling much more confident about creating my next story. Maybe it will be a spy mystery or a thriller. I pushed a button, and the screen flashed to life. It wasn’t blank.

Where did you go? I’ve been waiting for you to start my story.

I’m sure it will receive a Top Story on Vocal or maybe get published in one of those online magazines you’ve been submitting to.

Startled, I pushed my chair back from the desk so hard it teetered on the brink of toppling over before I finally righted it. I’m not an excitable person, but this was really freaking me out. Not only is someone sending me messages on an isolated computer, but they know who I correspond with. Do they know my passcodes? Can they read and edit my emails and texts? My brain was spinning with all the what-ifs.

I pulled myself back to the keyboard, took a deep breath, and typed. “How can I write your story if I don’t know who you are? Maybe if you give me something to work with, I can get started.” The screen remained devoid of an answer for several minutes. Just as I started chastising myself for being so gullible, letters appeared, slowly at first, then increasing in speed.

Why do I need to give you something to work with?

You should already have everything needed to write the story.

Maybe I’ve chosen the wrong person to write my memoir.

Are you really that clueless?

The shift in tone, from friendly to hostile in a matter of a few sentences, concerned me. I’m not the type of person who placates people’s egos. I tell them what I think and if they don’t like it, oh well! This situation is unique. If the person on the other end has access to my electronic life, who knows how much damage he or she could do? I need to be careful. “Sorry, seeing your words pop up on my screen out of nowhere unsettled me for a minute. Why don’t we start by you writing the first sentence or two? We can collaborate to make this a truly remarkable story.”

Now you’re thinking!

I was born before computers were invented, and calculators were called adding machines

A loud buzzing noise interrupted the flow of words on the screen. It pierced my ears and forced me to open my eyes and locate the source. My alarm clock was stalwartly performing its job. I reached over, shut it off, and raced to my computer. The box sat stoically on my desk, displaying a blank screen.

After breakfast, I returned to my work area with no idea what I was going to write. Even with my bizarre dream, I was still facing a blank page.